


Prophet

by TheVeryLastValkyrie



Series: Kinkmas MMXV [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Breathplay, Dom/sub, F/M, Sensory Deprivation, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/pseuds/TheVeryLastValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmas I. How sex became play, and play became life, and life became glorious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prophet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breathtaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/gifts).



“I can’t see.”

“No, but you can feel.”

And he can: the slightly spiky uprights of blades of grass, tickling the palms of his hands. The sun, which could be brighter. Her knee-bones press into the back of his neck, but her lap is a soft, softly smelling depression which makes Athos feel as if he’s floating.

“Look,” she says, and he sees her smiling, wicked face when she puts her palms over his ears, and all he can hear is the sea. His heart thumps, the sky seems bluer. Everything is different. The sighing in his head sounds like a release, like his own slow descent into the earth. Anne’s skirts can be his grave, he doesn’t care. A classicist, he had made plans to end his days buried between her breasts, but this bittersweet burnt-almond-like comfort is soothing in a way it just shouldn’t be.

She bends down, licks the tip of his nose like a cat.

“Well?”

His heart is a drum, her body is a womb. He wants to beat only inside her, live and die inside her.

“And the question was…” And his own voice echoes.

“You’ll see,” she tells him, evidently delighted, as if that explains everything. How she does what she does to him is inexplicable, but she does it without caring. It if there was a time before her, then the lazy heat of summer is making him forget it. This summer, _their_ summer is leading Athos to forget that there are boundaries, lines between people – and his wife winds her new hair ribbons around the spool of her wrist, thinking, always thinking about how to make the only summer she’s ever had last forever.

Learning to come undone is a process. There’s the usual way, which is beginning to seem so…sweaty. So ordinary. Anne binds his two hands to hers one particular morning, and his fingers go where hers go: they roam. They trickle like a stream of water from her to him to her. They don’t discriminate between petting and pinching, and what she does, he does, so he’s party to the bruises he gets too. They get blood under their fingernails, but they are one. She is all, and she watches over him with her free hand braced on the wall above the bed.

“Nothing could ever come between us.”

“No.”

Back in the field, she lowers her head to kiss him this time. Their faces are like playing cards, he up, she down, and they meet oddly – but Athos never questions that, why he does what he does when Anne asks him to do it. Her cheeks blush deliriously against him, flush against his skin. Perhaps she understands why he wants to eat and drink her. Perhaps she knows he’d do anything.

“Beg.”

And taking orders, he finds, is far more pleasurable than issuing them.

“ _Please_.”

He dwells less on the common things, on cock and cunt, on those sweaty, ordinary things which never fail to make him ecstatic, but not like this. He is husband to a woman who doesn’t have to hold his wrists chained, a man unmanned. She trails spirals of her silky hair over him, teasing. She grinds her elbow into his gulping throat, and the world goes dark and quiet, just like before.

“Do you love me?” She demands.

“Yes.”

So she pushes harder, and his fingers go into claws and he sees red and green and purple light as if through a stained glass window in church. She sighs, though, and her spine uncurls. He chokes on the taste of her still in his mouth, a compliment if ever there was one. He will throttle to death with her taste on his tongue. She looks upon him fondly, the surging blood in her lips making them full and red, her eyes hot in their sockets. How utterly corruptible he is, and how utterly beautiful. How much longer before he trusts her to push him over into blackness, to give up entirely, to overflow her hand while his oxygen-starved brain still believes itself to be dead? How long until one _please_ is enough to have her wet and ready to bite over the salt at the dinner table?

“Yes,” she agrees rapturously, pushing herself against him. “Yes.” Laying her arms along his arms, her legs along his. “Yes.” Becoming one un-consecrated un-crucified whole, an unholy X. “ _Yes_.” As lovers. As twins.

Has any puppet master ever adored their poppet quite so much?

**Author's Note:**

> [breathtaken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken) and I have been discussing the concept of 'acerotica' (as I shall dub it, or non-sexual kink for those of you describing breaths and hands and heartbeats before I was brave enough) for a while, and she outshines me in its execution. [Find hers here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5352338)


End file.
